


for now, in the narrative

by doublejoint



Category: Gossip Girl (Novels)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 12:28:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29368518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doublejoint/pseuds/doublejoint
Summary: Serena wants her. Of course she does, but Serena can have everything, anything or anyone she wants, and even what she doesn’t.
Relationships: Serena van der Woodsen/Blair Waldorf
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16
Collections: February Ficlet Challenge 2021: Apocalypse No





	for now, in the narrative

**Author's Note:**

> For Day 11 of the February Ficlet Challenge: Fear
> 
> This touches on a lot of Blair’s canonical (bookverse) issues. Takes place post- _I Will Always Love You_

The aftertaste of the wine is strong, still sour on the inside of Blair’s mouth. Their hotel balcony is high enough up to have a good view of Paris, and she should enjoy it, the lights spread out in front of her, the old topography, and she almost does. She grips her wine glass a little tighter and lets the air hit her in the face some more. Paris is beautiful; it’s nothing like New York or New Haven or anywhere else back in the states, where even the oldest cities aren’t that old. Here, there’s old dirt and layers of architecture awkwardly built up around each other, but it’s terribly romantic in the way even cobblestones down in the Village aren’t back home (Blair had turned an ankle once, when she was first learning to walk in heels; it’s a grudge even now that makes her bare her teeth).

She smooths her hair out, pushing a stray lock behind her ear. She’s still got half her glass of wine left; it’s her second. She shouldn’t have a third; it’s too many calories.

“You can work it off tomorrow,” Serena says, sleepy, from the doorway. 

She’s covering her mouth in a half-yawn, wearing Blair’s Badgley Mischka dress and it’s both too big and too small for her, riding up on her thighs like it’s supposed to be a negligee, but the acidic thrill in Blair’s veins surges, Serena in her dress, Serena with her lipstick still smudged at the corner of her mouth. There is more lipstick on the rim of the wine glass, tacky. Maybe she shouldn’t have put it on if they’re just going to have sex again, but it doesn’t hurt to look as good as she can, or to leave her mark on Serena.

“Easy for you to say,” Blair says.

Serena’s long arms wind around Blair’s torso easily; Blair lets her; their wine glasses clink together. Serena’s is nearly empty. The wine slashes, like someone tipsier than both of them would. Blair’s eyes slide again to the street below. They’re so high up. Serena kisses her neck; Serena wants her. Of course she does, but Serena can have everything, anything or anyone she wants, and even what she doesn’t; once she has it she pushes it away. And Blair sinks her teeth in and then finds them clacking together on nothing, always; that they’ve made it this far is highly unlikely. Yes, they’re Blair and Serena, all the years of petty and less-petty and important fights and everything between them; they have to work. They’ve been falling asleep on the same king-sized bed since their ages were in the single digits. They should be a perfect match.

But it’s never been like this, and Blair had never mapped out this path or seen it at all in her plans for the future, the fairy tale she writes and rewrites constantly, that she falls asleep to every night. Serena is the dragon or the fair handmaiden, not the beautiful princess whisking Blair off to another continent, away from yet another set of plans in shambles. 

This will all fall apart, too, like everything before. It's not fear when it's a certainty.  


“Blair,” Serena says. “You’re the one who told me about sex burning lots of calories.”

A blunt princess, who says things in the most unromantic ways, who doesn’t bother to try to sweep Blair off her feet, who doesn’t treat her like anything other than herself. Blair should hate it, but she really doesn’t. She downs the rest of her glass in one go, and Serena leans forward, her hair tickling the inside of Blair’s arm as she goes for the kiss. The angle is all wrong, but Blair will forgive Serena for being this tall and blonde and Serena for once, because, well, she’s Blair’s.

For now. 

She’s not competing against Serena; she’s won. She’s won Serena, as much as anyone can, for as long as anyone can, and that’s not enough for her (nothing is enough for her). But Serena knows that about her; she doesn’t tell Blair she’s too needy even when she is, falls in line with Blair’s wants and demands in that psychic way that Blair’s always not-so-secretly fantasized about. Serena might not lend her a coat in the cold weather, and she might wake up Blair way before she wants to, but she can get away with it, not because she’s Serena and everyone lets her get away with everything, but because she’s Serena and Blair is Blair.

Maybe this was all inevitable, a tight slow spiral they’d been headed for since forever, distracted by Nate in the middle, spinning with them and with that slow, stoned grin, until they’d let themselves pull apart. But there had always, even when they wouldn’t admit it, been reasons to pull back together and go over things--not stitch them up, seamstress is such an ugly image, with an ugly word to go with it. So is glue. There is an apt analogy, somewhere. Two years ago, two months ago, Blair would have made herself think until she found it. But Serena’s feeling her up, her hand under Blair’s Dolce & Gabbana blouse and skimming over Blair’s stomach up to her bra. 

“You really got dressed all the way?”

“I like to look good,” Blair says.

“Well, I have fun taking off your clothes,” Serena says.

Something about her saying that loosens something inside of Blair. like she’s stumbled down another step. Serena’s always liked this stuff about her, hasn’t she? She knows what she’s getting, just like Blair knows what she’s getting in Serena (bitchier, less considerate, than people want her to be). Serena’s other hand is playing with the zipper on Blair’s skirt, the wine glass hopefully too empty to splash her, and she’s not going to let Serena strip her outside. 

“Let’s go in.” 

Serena lets her lead the way, though maybe it’s an excuse to grab Blair’s ass on the way by. Blair would be lying if she said she didn’t like it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
